The Storybook Crimes
by HopelessRomanticxox
Summary: While doctor John Watson is away on his honeymoon Sherlock finds himself bored. That is until a page of a book flies into his path one evening. Rated T for precaution!
1. Once upon a time

**Hello my lovely readers :) This is my first multi-chapter Sherlock Holmes fanfic so please go easy on me! I'd like to point out quickly, that I am no expert on the film (despite seeing it about 10 times) and am not an expert on the language used, nor the time Sherlock Holmes was set. So I am sorry if something appears out of context, or just doesn't make sense!**

**Unfortunately I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the other characters in my story. All credit goes to both Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Guy Ritchie for making the film. This story will be set after the first (2009) film, but before Game of Shadows (2011)**

**Lastly, Enjoy :)**

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Once upon a time…

The rain slashed against the windows, and alongside the howling wind it created a horrible noise. The sound of dreadful weather and objects being battered about. Not the usual weather to go out for a walk in but then this was no ordinary man.

As the clouds darkened to ready the world for night a long figure strolled through the park as if the wind and the rain couldn't touch him. His coat was worn loosely, not protecting him from the elements as it should and his hair was plastered to his face, no strand escaping the water. Yet, he continued walking at a regular pace, not speeding in the hope of getting home soon. No you see, this man had chosen to step outside, even in these conditions, for it was the only weather that would ensure his privacy.

For the past few weeks Sherlock Holmes had kept himself, to himself, holed up in his room at 221b Baker street. His housekeeper, Mrs Hudson would carry him a tray thrice daily in order to keep him alive, rather much like caring for a plant. His former colleague, Dr John Watson was away with his newly blushing bride in the hope of a peaceful honeymoon period away from the polluted streets of London. Now they were sunning themselves and glancing into culture in a small town in Italy. So Sherlock had been a little more bored than he liked and no new cases were bringing themselves to light. He had checked the papers and letters over and over but it was fruitless and this led to him now stopping in the middle of the street and staring helplessly at the sky.

That is, until something caught his attention.

It was nothing, something that could easily have been a trick of the light for any average passer-by but Sherlock Holmes was anything but average. Upon closer examination he soon discovered that the movement had been a flickering of a flame going out. A previously lit piece of paper flew towards his feet, caught in a gust of wind until Sherlock's shoe stopped it from progressing. The corner was charred but the rain had extinguished the flame so quickly that none of the words had vanished. Sherlock snatched up the paper and took to the main road, flagging down a coach with ease and returning home.

"It appears to be the page of a children's fairy-tale." Sherlock held the page under a light and addressed the dog. Gladstone was back in his care while John and Mary holidayed and the poor animal had been subjected to a various amount of drugs and 'tricks' since its arrival.

"Snow White and the seven dwarves if I remember correctly. This is the page in which the wicked queen allows the young Lady to bite into the poisoned apple, causing her supposed death." Sherlock could not see the importance in setting fire to the page and shortly after reading the extract, all hope of a case was lost. After one last smoke of his pipe the detective returned to his bedroom.

The following morning the weather had calmed down considerably. Rain still continued to tap at the windows but this time with a gentle touch, nothing like the rough beating they took the previous evening. A tousled Holmes awoke to the sound of a metal tray being placed on the table in the main living room.

"Don't touch anything nanny!" His voice carried through to the woman who jumped and sighed at his reaction, even after just waking he was grumpy. She scolded herself for spilling a little tea on her sleeve, bit back the urge to mumble under her breath and departed the room.

This was when Holmes emerged. Dressed still in a shirt and trousers from his evening walk the man padded barefoot to the window and then back to his armchair, lighting a pipe and grabbing the newspaper sitting by breakfast. Once again, to no avail, the paper did not bring any new cases to light.

"This,' the detective mused to himself as he tossed the paper aside once more, 'suggests another quiet day by all accounts. What do you think Gladstone?" He looked across at the dog who was sitting in the corner, a wary eye on the gentleman. Sherlock, out of kindness tossed the pet some scraps of breakfast which the dog happily snatched up in his mouth. It took all of two minutes before Gladstone fell back into a drug addled sleep.

"It's as if you have no recollection of previous experiences." Sherlock smirked at the sleeping animal before eating the rest of the breakfast, the bits he hadn't laced with his new experiment.

"Inspector I really must insist! You cannot just-" Mrs Hudson was cut off mid-sentence as Inspector Lestrade made his own way into Sherlock's quarters followed closely by Constable Clark. Naturally, Sherlock had heard the commotion in the hallway and had put the letters to one side, relighting his pipe as he awaited the explanation for the uninvited intrusion.

"Mr Holmes, we have a potential case for you sir." The Inspector greeted not with formalities as one would expect, but straight to the point, as Sherlock liked. Taking a drag on his pipe the detective studied the two gentlemen.

"Tell me the facts." He stated.

"A young woman, a market trader has been found dead in an alleyway Mr Holmes. From the looks of the scene she choked or was poisoned."

"You think poisoned otherwise you wouldn't have consulted me, interesting. But nothing for me. Death is a common act in London I need different."

"The fruit was an apple sir."

"Not helpful Clarky."

"She was found with a potentially poisoned apple and a copy of Snow White and the seven dwarves, in which the main character was also-"

"Poisoned by an apple." Sherlock fumbled amongst his possessions and brought out the sheet of paper he had discovered in the park yesterday evening.

"Gentlemen. I'm interested." And grabbing his coat Sherlock led the way back out the door.

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**Only short I know but I didn't want everything to happen in the first chapter! Please read&&review, any thoughts are appreciated :D**


	2. Snow White

**I know I only posted chapter 1 yesterday but I have been ill and in bed for the past couple of days so have managed to write a lot more than I expected. So here's chapter two!**

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The marketplace was busy, packed full of the traders going about their usual business, as if nothing in particular was happening right behind them. This displeased Sherlock.

"You continue to allow them to sell despite the fact this has become a crime scene?" He complained to Lestrade as they headed to where the girl's body had been found.

"The marketplace is separate entirely by law to the alleyway. Therefore I cannot close them down. If it helps, we've blocked off the alleyway itself, that I can do." Sherlock sighed, not entirely impressed but with no energy ready for arguing. Instead he walked ahead and soon found the victim for himself.

She was a pretty young woman, in her late teens at best. She had the long dark haired favoured in the story but for now that would remain merely coincidence. Sherlock was more interested in the little details, rather than her appearance.

"She sells fruit and veg. her clothes smell of the fruits, she's worked there for a while. The apple wasn't quite ripe as it's skin was soft, bits are sitting under her fingernails. This suggests she hadn't eaten for a while and the apple was the nearest thing to hand that wouldn't sell as well as the others. It being soft meant the poison was easily injected inside. She's illiterate, the handwriting on the note in her pocket is in a man's handwriting not her own yet she looks at it regularly telling me she can read but not write. It's in basic words and numbers however, so she can only read simple phrases. Phrases she'll need for the rest of her life for example such as the prices on the stall and what each individual fruit and vegetable is. Her hands are smooth but have a couple of calluses and cuts suggesting she has only recently started manual labour. This could be because her brother or more likely her father left the stall and she is no longer working with anyone. This stall is her livelihood." Sherlock paused for breath. The Inspector and the constable didn't bother interrupting, knowing their own words would go unnoticed while Sherlock deduced.

"Do we know her name?"

"One of the market traders say she was Elena Morris. Nobody knew her mother and her father died o' heart attack not two weeks ago. She's all that's left." Clark explained.

"Mother probably died in childbirth considering Elena is an only child." Sherlock continued to study the body in front of him, before using the end of a pencil to prise open her mouth and check the inside. Then he jabbed the pencil into the apple, enabling him to lift it to his face and smell.

"Almonds…the apple has been doused in cyanide. Poison has been confirmed." With that he stood up, dusted himself down, handing the pencil holding the apple to a rather disgusted looking Lestrade and bid goodbye. His mind was running with various ideas of what could have happened, and why someone would want to poison an orphaned market trader who sells fruit for a living.

As he walked away Sherlock took his time, browsing the other market stalls and catching snippets of conversation. The main talk was of course, Elena though the traders didn't seem to disturbed that a murder had occurred so close to where they were standing.

"-poor girl. Though she's at rest now, even if it was in such tragic circumstances-"

"-she was only a young'un, barely out of her childhood, bless her heart-"

"-Just goes to show what people are like round here. Makes you think doesn't it."

Sherlock studied each individual market trader. They talked and joked and acted like a family, all close to one another and good friends. He assumed that most of them had grown up together, in this very spot and wondered if Elena was also a part of this group. It was, remarkably, not often that Sherlock felt like an outsider in a community, despite his vast differences to most of the people he talked to he had always been a part of the group but this time he was an outsider, looking in from the window. The only person in the market stall who hadn't experienced life the same as everyone else. That was until he turned his head abruptly to the right. It was then he noticed he was not the only individual who hadn't shared the same past.

* * *

Pulling his collar tightly around him and grabbing an abandoned hat from atop a crate Sherlock set to work on a makeshift disguise. He didn't have much to work with but anything was better than nothing. Instead of walking in the direction he had planned Sherlock turned fully to the right and began following. The subject of his interests was not too far ahead but just enough to stop him from being obvious. She was walking with a swift pace but slowed when she browsed the stalls. And minutes after Lestrade and his team had completely exited the alleyway, did she disappear into it.

"Got you." Sherlock whispered and picked up his own pace.

Irene had stopped where the body had lain, like she knew what had happened there. Sherlock dismissed the thought entirely before it had fully formed in his head. Irene was not a cold blooded killer, that much he knew about her for certain.

"She was my favourite trader. The only one who bothered to converse with the customer." Irene spoke with a slight tone of sadness as she turned and looked at Sherlock. So she had noticed him following then. Holmes wasn't surprised. While it had been a few months since he had last set eyes on the dark haired American beauty the pair were not remotely stunned to see one another in such close proximity once more.

"You knew her?" Sherlock asked, despite the fact that Irene had clearly stated the fact no less than a couple of minutes previous. With his disguise clearly ineffective he quickly discarded the hat.

"Barely. I knew her name and her trade that's all. She never knew mine. Elena was just a friendly face when I came visiting. Much like yourself Sherlock. Only she didn't question my every move and follow me around at every given opportunity." Irene smirked at the fact and Sherlock smiled back.

"Only ensuring no other crimes are being committed today Miss Adler."

"Where's Watson?" She changed the subject, brushing a hand under her eye and regaining her composure.

"Honeymoon with Miss Mary Mortsan."

"And you didn't follow, my, my, Sherlock that certainly is new." Irene commented with a more genuine smile.

"I had business here. Plus he expressly told me not to come."

"So you're on Elena's case?"

"For the time being yes."

"Then I want to help." Irene's smile disappeared and the light in her eyes turned to seriousness. She wasn't just asking for permission, she was insisting.

"With Watson away I am in need of an accomplice. But how do I know I can trust you?" Sherlock looked at his former adversary. The couple had, had their dealings in the past, both a mixture of good and bad. While it wasn't fact that the two of them clearly had some hidden feelings for one another to contend with the rumour wasn't entirely fiction either. Irene Adler had been, and continues to remain, the only woman who had ever bested Sherlock Holmes and the only woman who had affected him more than once on an emotional level. While she had all but announced her thoughts on the half constructed tower bridge in a previous case Sherlock had kept quiet and not said a word. However Irene was just as bright as himself and she had probably worked it out for herself.

"No matter what you'll never be able to trust me you know that as well as I do. So I guess, for the time being at least you'll have to trust yourself."

"That'd be a first." He responded quickly but with a grin. She returned it.

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**So our first crime has been committed! I don't count first crime as a spoiler, it is the storybook crimes after all, not crime :P And the return of Irene Adler as well! Hope you enjoyed, cakes and cookies for reviews :) (not bribing at all...)**


	3. You said Cyanide'

**Thank you for those who read and special thanks to The Wild Wild Whovian for your review...much appreciated as always :) Chapter three and some Irene/Sherlock fluff (Sorry if either character appears OOC I'm not great :/)**

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Sherlock allowed Irene to return to Baker street with him. It was at the doorway he noted that this was the first time he had ever allowed the woman into his home willingly, and probably the first time Irene had entered his home through the front door. She had such a penchant for getting in every other way.

What did surprise them both was the awkwardness that surrounded them being in the small location together. To try and break the unwelcome tension Sherlock found an unopened bottle of red wine and placed it on the table between them. Irene quickly scooped it up to read the label.

"Margaux, '58." Irene and Sherlock shared a glance at the familiar name of drink.

"Just to let you know, I have handcuffs too." Sherlock grinned in remembrance as he handed her a glass. She smiled in return and brought the glass to her lips but didn't drink until she saw Sherlock take the first sip, thus deeming it safe to consume.

The room had more of a comfortable silence now as the pair drank together and Sherlock lit his pipe. He leaned back in the armchair, studying Irene from afar. She was well aware of his actions but continued to act naturally before standing and walking over to the window, her back to Holmes.

"Who do you think would kill a market girl?" She asked, breaking the silence and bringing back the matter in which they were both brought together. Sherlock puffed a little more on his pipe, not responding as his mind went into overdrive to think of an appropriate response. It was too early into the case to come up with the ideal conclusion but already his mind had come up with various logical answers.

"From what we have seen we can deduce a lot already. The killer was not after money, she was a poor girl who could barely make ends meet as it was. He was not serving lust, the woman's body was untouched. This leaves us with possible revenge, but not over something angry, her body was uninjured on the outside. Therefore this leaves us with potentially a woman who may have said something or done something the killer did not approve of, thus giving him reason to dispose of her in a way that could be perceived as a random killing." Sherlock looked at the silhouette of the woman in his home. She did not react in any way to suggest a feeling for his deductions and she did not continue with her next question for another few moments.

"It couldn't have been a random killing because she was poisoned. Poison is more primarily known as a woman's choice of weapon because it is quick and easy. You said cyanide? Again a woman's choice of murder. But yet you say 'he'? You believe our killer was a man?" With this outspoken Irene turned back to Sherlock with curiosity etched on her pale face.

"There was a single set of deep footprints in the mud by Elena's body. They were far too big to be that of a woman and far too deep in the ground to be that of a woman in man's shoes. No Elena's killer was most definitely a man. As for the poison it wasn't a choice of weapon based on gender, nor based on the act in which she deserved to die. Elena Harris's body was found with a children's story, 'Snow White and the seven dwarves' a tale in which the young woman is killed with a single bite of a poisoned apple. Much like our poor Elena. The killer re-enacted the tale and tried to destroy the page in which the poisoned apple is described. However he chose to do it outside in the middle of wind and rain where I was walking. It took all of ten seconds for me to snatch up the paper and bring it here." Sherlock lifted the paper from the table with two fingers and held it out for Irene to observe. She took the paper carefully and quickly scanned across the page.

"So he used Elena as a modern day Snow White?" She asked, confirming what Sherlock had already explained.

"But why?" It was around ten minutes after the pair had stopped talking before Irene spoke up again. She had returned to the window and Sherlock was in the other room, sifting through some papers and generally trying to look busy. His head popped up at the sound of Irene's voice and he crossed the room in a few steps to position himself behind her, also looking out the window.

"That is what I've been asked to investigate. It's too early to confirm any of my suspicions but I can assure you it won't be long before Elena's killer comes to justice and meets with the rope." Sherlock closed his eyes as the scent of her Parisian perfume struck his nostrils.

Irene felt Sherlock's presence behind her rather than saw him. She felt the heat of his warm hand brush against the fabric of her dress and almost immediately the butterflies swarmed her stomach, making her dress feel too tight. It was only Sherlock Holmes that could bring out this sort of feeling in Miss Adler. She had been married and divorced and ended up with many a different man but that was for money or extortion, they had feelings for her but never the other way round. Why was it that Sherlock Holmes was different. On the construction of tower bridge Irene had all but announced her feelings for Sherlock through simple words and facial expression but all she got for her efforts was a kiss on the cheek and barely a goodbye. Still, through little actions Irene had long since learnt that Sherlock harboured some sort of affection for her, whether it be the same as she felt for him was a different matter entirely though.

Through the glass of the window she watched as his eyes closed, as he breathed in the scent of her. She wanted so much to close her own eyes and just embrace their togetherness but Irene knew she had to keep her feelings separate from this case. While she longed to lean back against his warm muscular body Irene knew that expressing her vulnerability while alone with Sherlock was never going to be a good idea.

And so they continued to stand there, against the window for the next fifteen minutes or so. Their bodies barely inches away and any slight movement from either of them caused their bodies to connect, sending sparks of electricity through them both.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Sherlock's whisper was barely audible in the darkened room. The only light now was from the lone flickering candle on the table and the moon shining in the window. Irene breathed deeply, suppressing a yawn and finally allowed her head to loll back against Sherlock's shoulder. He didn't move, nor did he adjust his position to shift her away. Instead, his arm moved slightly, positioning it to allow his body to accommodate her.

"It's getting late. You should sleep, you have a crime to solve in the morning." Irene's voice was laced with exhaustion as she turned. Again neither of them moved and they remained inches away from one another, their breath mingling.

"I'll take the living room, you're welcome to the bedroom my dear." Sherlock brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek, kissed it lightly and walked away, gathering up a blanket and making his way to the tiger rug in the middle of the room. Irene watched and sighed.

"You don't have to do that you know. I'm more than happy to find a hotel for the evening, or sleep elsewhere." She explained as he tossed the blanket onto the rug. He looked at her.

"It's too late, you'll never find a hotel now. And what sort of gentleman would I be if I didn't allow the Lady the bed?" He asked with a smile.

"The same sort of gentleman you've always been?" She smirked and with a wink she returned the kiss to his cheek and disappeared into the bedroom.

The following morning Sherlock woke to the smell of breakfast. It was more than just the usual tea and toast Mrs Hudson left him with, this was a full cooked breakfast, and a note.

As Holmes tucked into the food he didn't need to check the bedroom to know it was empty. The scent of Parisian perfume was faint and evidently, Irene had left while he'd been sleeping.

"_Sherlock_

_ Sorry I had to leave this morning, I'm at the Grand, I needed a change. Our usual room. I'll leave the door unlocked so you don't need to trouble yourself. _

_Enjoy the breakfast, see you soon._

_Irene Adler"_

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**I hope you enjoyed, reviews would be lovely :) **


	4. Dinner and a tale

**Chapter four is an extra long one (hopefully not too long, don't want you getting bored) some Irene/Sherlock banter and some deducing for you my dears. Enjoy...**

**Ps: I'm sure it's obvious but a bit further into the chapter, the paragraphs in italics are from the previous evening :D**

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Holmes did not go straight to the Grand after breakfast. Instead he returned to the market place with the intention of studying the other traders. While he had observed yesterday he had been distracted and now he was alone it was time to put his mind and the knowledge he'd already discovered to good use. He made a start with the trader whose stall sat directly next to Elena's. The man behind was selling bread and cakes and other baked goods and the smell upon approach was delicious. If Sherlock hadn't already eaten a considerable amount that morning the food would have knocked his senses right off balance.

"What can I get you today Sir? Nice white loaf? Maybe some cakes to take with you Sir?" The trader was right in his element trying to persuade Holmes part with his money, however it wouldn't work.

"Today I'd like some answers. More specifically, details about Elena Harris." The traders smile vanished and his eyes clocked onto Elena's usual pitch. Today it lay practically empty, instead of fruit and vegetables lay garlands and bouquets of flowers in memory of the young girl.

"Elena was me best friend. Had been since we started here together. We'd grown up with each other you see, she supported me when I lost me mam and I supported her when she lost her dad." The trader, who went by the name of Eddie sat on the curb next to Sherlock. He had messy brown hair which had been unwashed for about a week or so and flour marks on his clothing from where he'd been baking. Sherlock dismissed him as the killer instantly, the size of his feet and his cheery patter on the stall had made him innocent.

"Had Elena got on the wrong side of anyone recently?" Sherlock asked, using a soft approach as he learned from in the past.

"No. She was always so lovely, served customers, had a smile on her face and chatted away like they were all her lifelong friends. She'd give advice and support to anyone who needed it, even if it was just a smile and a shoulder to cry on."

"Any unusual or different customers?"

"One. He was a fairly new customer, at least, we'd never seen him around. He was a little upset but Elena calmed him down and gave him some advice, don't know what though, couldn't hear." Sherlock continued to study the man in silence.

Clean hands, experienced baker always made sure his hands were kept clean. But he was a smoker, the tips of his nails were grazed with the tinge of yellow one only got from excessive smoking. In the evenings he was a drinker, a stain sat on his shirt collar, red wine, won't wash out, been there a couple of days, week at best. This suggested the man was also poor like most market traders, he couldn't afford to buy another shirt so had to make do with this one. His skin was tanned and rough, weather beaten. He was strong, muscular and his hands were rough, he was a man used to manual labour – possibly helping out lifting the heavier crates from a young age. He spent most of his time outdoors, working on the market stall and pumping the wood stove built up his upper body strength. But he wasn't a fighter, there were no cuts or marks on his visible skin, his hands were calloused from using them often but his knuckles were unmarked, he wasn't a fist fighter.

Sherlock quickly deduced that this man hadn't intended to become a Baker and most likely wanted to go onto more manual work, maybe on the railway, in the army or at sea. He chose to stay on the stall when his mother passed away to continue her legacy, father unseen, but not mentioned as dead. Probably ran when he heard the woman was with child. Single mother, son very protective.

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As the rain started to coat the pavement, the buildings and the people Sherlock finally approached the front steps of the Grand Hotel. He wasn't sure why he was doing this, visiting Irene Adler always turned into a huge mistake and last time he ended up handcuffed to a bed with nothing on.

Not this time.

No Sherlock was going to ensure he kept his wits about him. Despite the fact Irene had said she'd work with him on this case, and even invited him to come and visit her he knew that he would never be able to trust the woman. There had been far too much history to divulge in trust.

She had kept true to her word, the door was on the latch when he approached. She was nowhere to be seen upon entering but the distinctive smell of her perfume led him to believe she was still here.

"There's a bottle in the kitchen!" Her voice called out from one of the other rooms. Indeed, there was a bottle of vintage red sitting on the table when he walked by the kitchen and popping the cork out of the bottle Sherlock poured the wine into two glasses. He did not however, drink the liquid.

Eventually she appeared, dressed in a beautiful midnight blue dress which suited her pale complexion perfectly. A simple sapphire necklace adorned her neck, but whether it was hers to be wearing was a different question entirely.

"Going somewhere?" He asked with a small smile as he registered her appearance.

"I'm having dinner with a friend. We'd have had a lot longer to talk if you had turned up this morning." She sat opposite him, taking one of the glasses, sighing with a smile at his untouched one, before proceeding to sip the glass. Upon her action, Sherlock picked his own drink up.

"When will you ever learn to trust me?" She asked, setting her drink aside and walking to her dressing table, fixing her hair in the mirror.

"I believe we discussed this at great length last night." Was his reply.

"We talked about whether you could trust yourself to trust me in which you said you can't. But I am trusting you with finding Elena's killer. Can you not trust me in the same capacity?" She caught his stare in the mirror.

"You know the answer to that my dear, it doesn't need to come from me." He responded.

"So where were you this morning? Getting any further with our case?"

"My case and I have ruled out anyone from the market place. But I have my suspicions about a new figure."

"Who?"

"I don't know his name, nor his identity. But he was a new customer, that Elena gave advice to a couple of days previous to her death. He seems a likely suspect at this point in time."

"How…interesting." Irene continued to wind her hair into an elegant style. Natural to her, she was wearing it half up and allowing some of the long curling chocolate strands to slip over her shoulder.

"Who are you having dinner with?" Sherlock couldn't stop himself from asking. She smirked at his intrigue.

"Just a friend, nobody you know."

"A friend? Or a client?"

"I'm not working for anyone at the moment. All my thoughts are on who killed Elena." She turned her head and watched as Sherlock poured himself another glass of wine and topped Adler's up.

"So this 'friend' is helpful to the case?"

"Potentially yes."

"I should be there."

"No." Irene laughed as she parted from the dressing table stool and returned to her chair opposite Sherlock.

"Why not?"

"You're not invited darling. Plus it'd be much to boring for you. No, no, I will go to dinner alone with him. Then tomorrow we will meet again and I'll explain." She leaned back and sipped the wine, case closed.

"Lunch. 12 noon, the Royale. I'll even book our usual table." With that Sherlock stood and headed to the door.

"Don't be late!" Irene called after him as he made his way down the corridor and onto the staircase.

* * *

Tucking a napkin into his collar, Sherlock checked the time. 11:59. Irene had a terrible habit of arriving exactly on time no matter what and so he'd continue to wait. It was unlike him to be early but all night he had questioned who Irene could be meeting and what information they could possibly have to share. It was all about trust and boundaries again.

"You're starting to lose it without Watson old boy." Sherlock told himself as he tucked the pocket watch away and continued to watch the door. As the clock ticked over to the full hour the door opened and Miss Adler walked in. Almost immediately the pair caught eye contact and after a little conversing with the maître' de, Irene made her way through the tables and set herself down in the chair Sherlock had pulled out for her.

"You're early." She commented with a smile.

"Fashionably." Was his immediate response. They ordered food and wine before the conversation progressed any further.

"So, how was your dinner yesterday evening?"

_Irene scanned the room briefly before allowing the waiter to seat her at the designated table. The man she had arrived to meet was not here but this did not surprise her in the slightest. She ordered herself a glass of red wine and set herself back in the chair, eyes fixed on the entrance to the exclusive restaurant._

"_A pleasure to see you again Miss Adler." A voice appeared at her right shoulder startling Irene. However she had grown accustomed to being surprised and did not react, save for a small smile._

"_I was rather expecting you to arrive through the front door." She replied as he took the chair opposite her.  
_

_"Now that would be all too obvious wouldn't it. Now I believe you're after some information?" He didn't waste time, jumping onto the subject almost as soon as they had both ordered. Rather like someone else Irene knew._

"There's been another." Irene told him, looking directly at his face for signs of a reaction. Nothing obvious occurred however.

"Another? Where?"

"Overseas. Florence, in Italy."

'_Convenient,_' Sherlock mused to himself, '_that the second crime would occur in the same town Watson and his wife were honeymooning in.'_

"The exact same method?" He questioned but Irene shook her head. The two paused for a moment to thank the waiter before continuing.

"No, this case was a man, burned to death. But the same signature was there. The man was left in a plaza with nothing but a book, Hansel and Gretel. Another children's fairy story, in which the wicked witch tries to burn them in the oven." Irene explained.

"So another story, same signature. Somebody seems to have an issue with fairy tales. What else did your friend have to share?" Sherlock began tucking into his meal.

_The meal had been rather pleasant and the information shared between the two had been comfortable. Now as they drew towards the end of their evening Irene and her friend sat back in the chairs and continued to talk without the distraction of food and drink._

"_You are aware of course that this information cannot be told to just anyone, aren't you?" He asked with a note of sincerity. Irene nodded._

"_Trust me, the man this information will be going too is going to help. I wouldn't ask him otherwise."  
_

_"And he knows where you're getting your updates from?" _

"_Not at the moment no. All that matters is finding Elena's killer. For my sake and your own. He's talked with the market traders and the police, yet doesn't seem to have much of an idea as to your existence. I trust where you're staying is quite comfortable for the moment?" Irene dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin, more for something to do than to wipe any mess._

"_Much more extravagant than I have been used to recently but it's nice to be in a formal setting for a change. My host has a rather pleasant taste in living arrangements."  
_

_"And he has arranged for all expenses to be paid for? If Sherlock Holmes is to study victim number two we are going to need a method of transportation."  
_

_"That has been arranged." He handed over two pieces of paper. Train tickets._

"_Returns. They will get you there sure enough. Hopefully upon your return to London Elena's killer will be brought to justice."  
_

_"We can only hope."_

"_Until then, Miss Adler." He kissed her hand, paid the bill and the pair of them exited, Irene getting into her own carriage while the other made his way to one waiting for him. A government style carriage._

"These,' Irene placed two identical strips of paper onto the middle of the table, 'train tickets to Florence, Italy. The train leaves tonight, 10 o'clock. I thought you'd like to take a look at the crime scene for yourself so I had him acquire these."

"Two."

"I'm coming with you."

"No you're not, if I'm to go to Florence, it is alone. You will stay here."

"Not a chance. This man murdered a friend of mine and now he has struck again. There is no way you will stop me from coming to Italy Sherlock Holmes mark my words." Irene's soft brown eyes took on a steely glare. She was deadly serious but Sherlock wasn't being fooled.

"I am not having you come to Florence. If this killer is in Italy you are safest here."

"You won't stop me."

"Try me."

The pair sat in silence, staring one another out. Anger was written across Irene's face while Sherlock's took on a more defiant expression.

"Since when did you care of my safety?" She asked eventually. Her tone was a little calmer now, but the deadly undertone was still there. Sherlock watched her actions. She was continuing as normal, to any eyes that fell upon their table it would look like there was nothing wrong. No heated conversation at all. His eyes grazed her as the fork she was holding dipped onto her plate and then into her mouth, eyes never once leaving their target.

"I've always cared for your safety. It's the one bad habit I can't seem to shake."

"The one?!" Irene couldn't help but laugh.

"We are not changing the conversation to my bad habits Irene Adler. Alright then you can come. Under one circumstance."

"What is it now darling?" She drawled in a bored voice.

"Who is your friend? If someone is giving helpful little tips on this case I want a name." he replaced his own fork and leaned back in the chair, continuing to study in a way that would make most people rather uncomfortable.

"Of what importance is it to you?" Irene questioned.

"Fine, goodbye my dear I'll see you in a couple of days." Sherlock made to stand, draining her glass and leaving it on the table as he prepared to walk away. Irene allowed to reach the next table at least.

"Wait!" She called, not turning her head. He slowly made his way back to the table, lounging back in his own chair a devilish smirk on his face that annoyed her so.

"He's Elena's uncle." Sherlock nodded. So there had been more to the family tree after all.

"And he hasn't been mentioned before why?"

"Because he's not really in Elena's circle. He and her mother were siblings but he never got along with the father. So when Elena's mother passed he wrote himself out of their lives."

"He's wealthy."

"Considerably so. At least he was. Lost most of his money through gambling and alcohol. But he approached a friend of his, cleared himself up. That's when he heard of Elena's death."

"A wealthy friend?"

"A wealthy, powerful friend."

"So it's his wealthy, powerful friend that's paying for train tickets and posh meals out at exclusive restaurants." Irene laughed a little.

"Yes. Michael, that's his name, is still trying to get back onto his own feet but Elena was flesh and blood, he has every right to know who killed her."

"And does Mycroft know it's helping you and I?" This did catch Irene by surprise.

"Mycroft?" An attempt at pretending the name was unfamiliar to her wasn't necessary, she was more surprised that it was familiar to Sherlock. She had only ever known the man by his first name and never had the pleasure of meeting what was supposedly one of the most important men in the government.

"He's the man Michael is staying with isn't he? A wealthy and powerful man of course it would be Mycroft."

"Sherlock how do you-?"

"How do I know him, did you never think to check the names? Mycroft _Holmes _is my dear brother." Irene's eyes widened in surprise. Why it shocked her she didn't know, she'd never enquired into Sherlock's family life so why should it come to any shock that he had siblings.

"Of course he is." She murmured with another small smile. With their conversation over Sherlock fetched and paid the bill. Naturally when he turned back to Irene all could be seen was the flutter of her skirts as she left the door, in no hurry, but Sherlock knew better than to follow. Instead he cast his eyes downwards, to the note left on the napkin.

"_That's my part of the deal done, see you at 10, Irene."_

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**__Really hope you all enjoyed! Reviews would be lovely, I love knowing what you all think :L Xx**


	5. A Journey to Italy

**Yay my internet is back again :) Chapter four for you lovelies, thanks for the reviews! Not a very exciting chapter I'm afraid, bit of fluff and a train journey but I didn't want it to be overly long. (Also, if you can I'd love to hear your opinions on my Irene and Sherlock. I'm afraid they are a little OOC but I don't want to ruin them completely so please let me know if I have...) thankyou!**

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The train station was quiet, only one vehicle pulled in, the train to Florence. After meeting at the ticket office and making their way on board Sherlock and Irene had only shared a sprinkling of conversation. They had their own sleeping compartments, the train journey was to take two days. It was longer than Sherlock initially would have liked but there was no other way.

The rooms were average at best, nothing much more than storage space for clothing, a window, a small writing desk and each with their own double bed. While there wasn't much it was comfortable and adequate for what they needed.

Upon the train's departure Sherlock had given up unpacking and decided for one last smoke before bed. He knew it was earlier than normal but a sleep was something to distract him from the train journey. It wasn't that he disliked trains, in fact he quite enjoyed travelling without effort, but it was the boredom that soon took hold if there was nothing to do. And on a train, apart from a bar that was usually localised by idiots at this time, there really was nothing to do. So instead, he cracked open the window and lit his pipe, watching the world pass by as they left London. In the silence of his compartment Sherlock listened for what Irene could be doing next door. There had been some movement which seemed to have quietened now, suggesting she had unpacked. But now there was no sounds to be heard, maybe she too had fallen asleep.

It was some time after midnight, closer to one when Sherlock awoke. At first he struggled to understand why but the soon to be heard hammering of rain on window gave him the answer. And not long after, the crashing sound of thunder and the spark of lightning.

"Brilliant." He moaned rolling onto his back. That was when something else caught his eye by the window, or rather someone. He found it rather amusing that Irene Adler had found her way into his compartment and was now asleep against the desk. Presumably she too had woken from the storm and headed to his room to see if he was awake. When he wasn't she sat at the desk to wait, before sleep took her back and she closed her eyes.

Climbing out of the bed he walked over to where she was laid, looking rather more vulnerable than she would have liked. Stroking back a strand of curled hair from her face it was quite clear why he had grown to care for her in the past few years. Despite the arguments, the fights and the fact they were working on opposites sides of the law the pair had grown some sort of friendship, one that worked for them anyway.

He shook her shoulder gently and she moaned into her arm as she tried to fight the suggestion of waking up. Instead of leaving her Sherlock continued, using his arm around her waist to support her into a standing position. There was no point trying to take her back to her own room, the pair of them were far too tired for that so instead he helped her over to his own bed, drawing a sharp intake of breath as her warm cheek settled against the bare skin of his neck. Lying her amongst the cushions and covering her with the blankets he pressed his lips to her forehead before moving round the other side and sleeping atop the bedding.

"Goodnight Irene." He mumbled into the darkness and an incoherent reply came from her as they both succumbed to sleep once more.

The next morning the storm seemed to have calmed but the rain hadn't let up. Sherlock awoke and almost immediately froze as he looked to his right to see the curled up Irene still asleep. In the night the two had drawn closer and now she was curled against his side with his arm draped over her waist. While he knew he should, a small part of Sherlock told him not to move and to continue lying there in comfort. He fought the urge and slipped away from Irene, trying not to wake her. Instead he headed to the en-suite bathroom to freshen up and then the wardrobe to clothe himself. When he had returned Irene had gone and movement could be heard in her compartment.

In front of Sherlock sat a plate of half eaten eggs and toast. While the meal was good as far as most train food went he had stopped eating due to his other senses reacting. The distinctly familiar scent of Parisian perfume. It was like every one of his senses had been finely tuned to react when she entered the room. So now, in amongst a room full of constant chatter, the overwhelming smell of cooked food and people who had decided against the use of their shower rooms that morning Sherlock could no longer sense any of it. Just the perfume.

"Good night's sleep darling?" Her American accent appeared in his ear as she kissed his cheek in good morning.

"Dreadful storm." Was his reply as she took the seat next to him and buttered herself some toast.

"Indeed but the company was rather pleasurable." She smiled. Her hair was completely down this morning, something he hadn't seen her do in a long time. So instead of the elegant updo it fell in chestnut curls down her back and around her shoulders, framing her made up face beautifully. But a shinier sparkle caught his eye.

"That necklace is new." He smirked as he lifted the chain from behind her neck, pulling the jewel into sight. Irene grabbed it and hastily returned it back down her dress with a smile.

"Just something I came across this morning."

"Accidentally?"

"But of course what do you take me for? A thief?" She purred into his ear, leaning ever so slightly closer than usual. Sherlock found himself not caring. Too much time with this woman was really changing him.

"Who?" Irene inclined her head a little in the direction of an older woman, perhaps in her mid-fifties. Perfectly coifed hair, navy blue day dress yet formal in design, a cluster of various jewels dangling from her ears, around her neck, wrists and fingers she was an extremely wealthy woman. One with a title perhaps? She didn't strike as familiar and Sherlock decided she couldn't be that important if eating amongst everyone else. Then he noticed the look in her eyes. They were a soft blue but with distance. She used to be someone of importance but something happened.

"The former Lady Genevieve of Paris. Was caught having an affair with one of her manservants and the title and her privileges were taken from her."

"And the jewellery?"

"The one possession that was actually hers to keep."

It always intrigued Sherlock as to how Irene knew so much about so many people she'd barely met. An educated guess told him instantly that she and Lady Genevieve had never met and that more likely Irene was an acquaintance of maybe the Lord.

With a day and a half left of the train journey and only a short five minute stop on the way to restock food Irene and Sherlock soon found themselves rather bored. Holmes had managed to deduce everything about pretty much everyone on board and had even tried the opportunity at making little scenarios to give him something to focus on, a game Irene found rather amusing. The weather chopped and changed, staying on rather the worse side whether it be rain, storm or high winds. When none of the above occurred the skies remained bleak at best, a dull fog covering the ground.

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It was mid-afternoon on the second day when a member of staff came round to inform everyone the train would be arriving in Florence a little later than predicted, around 11 o'clock the following morning at best. This meant another night aboard. Irene and Sherlock were together in Holmes' room, Irene lounging on the bed and Holmes at the writing desk, smoking his pipe.

"How do you think Dr Watson will react to your appearance in Florence?" Irene asked, watching him as she absent-mindedly curled a strand of hair around her right middle finger.

"Oh he'll be thrilled." Was Holmes' sarcastic response. Irene laughed.

"I rather doubt he's expecting you to turn up on his honeymoon isn't he?"

"My dear, the last words he said to me were 'on no account are you to follow us to Italy, or there will be hell to pay'" Sherlock glanced across the room at her as she laughed again.

"Oh dear, sounds like someone is in trouble. And what of Mary?"

"I do believe she'll be the 'hell' to pay" Was his reply. This time the pair of them laughed.

"He'll be more interested when he hears of the case won't he?" Irene asked.

"Of course he will but that will come after he yells at me for appearing in Florence, questions me over why on Earth I'm back into contact with your good self and yells at me again for being in Florence." Sherlock had finished his pipe and crossed the room, sitting next to Adler on the bed. She turned her body to face him fully.

"Oh yes. Dr Watson has always had a bit of an issue with us being in contact hasn't he?" She remembered.

"Don't dwell on it darling, he has a problem with me talking to most others."

"Me in particular?"

"You're somewhat different."

"In what way?"

"In every way."

Irene and Sherlock very rarely shared intimate moments between them. The chemistry had always been there, they knew that better than everyone else. But together they both had tried to disprove it, by playing constant games so much crueller each time. Between them both it was a constant battle to win, to prove they were better and emerge triumphant. But every so often, usually when they were alone, and a lot more than people chose to believe, they could be nice to one another.

So it was to no great surprise to either of them that when they may eye contact after Sherlock's final words the gap between them closed. Not to a kiss, they still didn't trust one another for that just yet, not a proper kiss anyway. No this was just a hug, his arms closing around her slim frame and her head resting just under his chin. The comfort shared between two people who constantly denied friendship. Sherlock pressed his lips to her hair and inhaled her scent. In silence. Just the two of them.

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**So what did you all think, reviews would be very nice :)**


	6. Hansel and Gretel

**New chapter for all my lovely readers and reviewers, I dedicate this to you :) Enjoy!**

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When the train pulled into the Italian station, the small city of Florence seemed a world away from the bleak scenery they had passed to get here. It was instantly clear why Watson and his wife had chosen this small city, the warm sun was a breath of fresh air and the architecture was grand yet on a modest scale.

A porter pushed the trolley containing Sherlock and Irene's luggage from the train to a carriage awaiting them. The carriage would take them to a hotel in Adler's name which was near to the plaza in which the crime had occurred. After informing Scotland Yard about his findings and then about the second attack in Florence Sherlock was given permission to continue. Not that he would have needed the consent anyway, he found Scotland yard to be a huge timewaster usually.

While Mycroft was more than happy to have paid for suitable lodgings Irene had a particular hotel in mind that took her fancy whenever she was staying in Italy. The younger Holmes really wasn't bothered about where he was sleeping, his mind was focussed on the reason they were here, and the knowledge that eventually they were going to have to inform Watson that he was here. His only hope was that they didn't run into him and his wife while out in the plaza.

After a brief stop at the hotel (which regrettably Sherlock found to be rather pleasant, causing Irene to grin like the cat that got the cream) they dropped off their luggage and headed the hospital near the plaza where the body was being kept. It had been decided that they would study the victim first before heading to observe the location the crime was committed. Irene was more than happy to just follow, she would never admit it, but it was quite an experience being the great detectives companion for a change, rather than the one he was usually following.

Irene shuddered a little. While she had faced death and blood and all manner of ghastly things hospitals were always a little more scary, even more so, morgues. She didn't know whether it was there nature of being cold, dark places, or the sense that so many passed through here on their way to the next life but ever since was a little girl she had found them unnerving.

So as she followed Sherlock and a doctor she hadn't bothered to remember the name of she found it somewhat relieving that Holmes was here with her. Not in a protective way, she'd never allow him to know her true feelings of their location, but because it was always more of a comfort to her to have someone of familiarity nearby in a situation like the one she had found herself in.

'Don't let it show' she chided herself silently and ensured her exterior remained calm and steely with an air of edge that meant she'd expect anything and nothing to happen in the next few minutes.

Sherlock wasn't fazed, he had been in many a morgue in his time and the very matter of death ceased to worry him. But even without looking he could tell Irene was on edge. It marvelled him that a woman so cold and so used to death should fear a place where the dead came to rest and it begged the question, was she the same around cemeteries?

Dr Simmons, the man who had led them down here stopped in front of a metal table. Irene had stopped beside him while Sherlock stood on the other side of the table. With a nod of unspoken permission from Simmons, Holmes peeled back the white sheet to reveal the remains of the man underneath.

It was clear that he had been severely burnt, that much could be seen from the painful blisters across his skin and the singed hairs. It was a horrific sight and Sherlock silently praised Irene on her calm exterior, she did not seem bothered in the slightest. Even the doctor had taken a step back, not out of fear or disgust but more surprise. Despite the fact Simmons' had examined the victim from the very beginning, the sight was still truly shocking.

"His name was William Donte. Mother Italian, father English."

"35 give or take a year either side. Muscular, neat and well groomed well at least he was before he was burnt. This man was a soldier. Recently back from war but due to the extent of his injuries now we can't see whether or not he was injured fighting. Cannot tell whether he was front line or not. He's not married, no tan line where a ring should be, and this leads us to believe no children either. His parents still alive?', Simmons' shook his head, 'The only one left. No mother, no father, no wife, no children."

"What about siblings?" Irene asked.

"I wouldn't have thought so, man signs up to war and doesn't return when his parents die? Nobody to support, nobody to grieve with. He was alone in the world."

"And somebody killed him. Just like Elena. They both had no family, or family that didn't support them. Is that the link? Does the killer just like to kill those who have nothing left?" Irene's voice was softer than expected and Sherlock wondered about her closeness to Elena. She had never appeared to be the sort of woman who saddens after the death of a market girl, but then with the life Irene led he assumed it wasn't often she was able to continue to talk to a familiar face and have them recognise her. Other than him of course.

The couple chose to walk to back to the hotel that evening. After finishing up at the hospital they had headed to the crime scene, an abandoned corner of the plaza. It was out of sight of anything that could potentially witness and aside from a scorched patch of weed growing through the brickwork there was nothing much to go on. Nevertheless Sherlock had taken a sample of the burnt plant before they had left, nothing left to see. It wasn't until they had made their way back into the plaza when Irene had spotted the piece of paper under a rock. As expected, it was the page in Hansel and Gretel where the children are put into the oven, the page in which this crime was based on.

"There are a lot of fairy tales Sherlock." Irene had commented as he pocketed the paper with the page from Snow White.

"There will not be any more deaths." Was his reply.

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**Not overly long I know but I hope you enjoyed :) Please please review my lovelies, much appreciated!**


	7. Here comes Trouble

**Thank you my beautiful readers for all your wonderful reviews! I'm sorry this chapter took a little longer than expected and its not majorly long or anything, there really is no excuse other than my laziness :( Sorry...but please, enjoy!**

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As Sherlock led back onto the double bed he flipped between the two storybook pages. Both had been burnt but one significantly more than the other. While it was still readable the killer had obviously tried hard to destroy the pages. Or not hard enough. Whoever was behind this wasn't an idiot that much was clear. So maybe he wanted the pages to be found. The first he'd put outside in the wind and rain and yet still set it alight. The second he left under a rock. These parts hadn't been thought through at all, not like the rest of the crime.

'Maybe he was feeling guilty each time he killed and panicked but wasn't thinking straight. Yet something in his subconscious was telling him to strike again, and once he had done he felt that same fleeting panic...but how long before the subconscious speaks out once more.' Sherlock's mind was brought away from his own thoughts as a piece of paper slipped beneath the door adjoining his own room with Adler's. Sauntering over he picked up the paper and leaned against the dresser.

'_Bad day, see you at dinner? 8 o'clock downstairs. I'll be in red. Irene'_

"As if I need to know what colour you're wearing in order to recognise you." Holmes murmured to himself in a smile. He checked his pocket watch. It was 7.30 already, clearly she had chosen to get ready and then inform Sherlock.

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It was one of the first dinners in a long time where Sherlock Holmes could confidently say that he enjoyed himself. Especially one with Irene Adler. Naturally their usual banter shined through but for this evening talk of the case was strictly off the cards. 'Too much negativity for one day' was Irene's reason.

It was during one of Sherlock's anecdotes (they'd been going back and forth with stories all evening) when Irene's eyes widened, and not due to what he had said.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Trouble." Was her own response. It amused Irene that he looked puzzled.

"For you."

"For you." Sherlock's head turned at the new voice. His friends new wife. Which could only mean…

…sure enough, not far behind Mary Mortsan was Dr John Watson who had yet to notice his friend sitting at dinner.

"Ah, my dear, such a pleasure to see you, and you Dr Watson, enjoying your honeymoon?" Sherlock wasn't fazed, he'd clearly been aware this moment was to arrive sooner or later and intended to act upon it like it was a good thing he was here. Mary and John's expressions however, did not match his trail of thought.

"Good lord Holmes what was the last thing I told you?! You're like a petulant child and if you think for one moment you're going to persuade me to spend any of my time with you then you are sorely mistaken!" Watson was angry but kept his tone at a minimal to avoid unwanted attention.

"Old boy before you question and complain I want you to know that it was not in my immediate plans to follow you to Italy. Rather it is a case that has brought me here. I do believe you remember Miss Irene Adler." This was when Watson's attention was taken from that of Holmes, to that of Adler. His eyes widened in surprise, it had been rather a considerable amount of time since the two had previously met, the sewers beneath Parliament to be exact.

"Miss Adler, I wasn't aware the two of you were in contact." Watson looked at Irene but the statement was set more for Sherlock's sake.

"Sherlock is assisting me in investigating the killer of a friend of mine." Irene spoke up.

"And that is all? Nothing..sinister, no other reasons?" Watson had seen Irene and Sherlock's past up close. He had every right to be suspicious. Irene smiled.

"Nothing whatsoever." She winked at Sherlock, an action that didn't go unnoticed, but went unquestioned.

"So you thought it would be appropriate to turn up in Italy without informing John first?" Mary was clearly frustrated at her husband's friend arriving out of the blue. However she did not even consider Irene. The two had never met, but Mary wasn't ready for introductions right this minute.

"You must be Mary Mortsan, the good Doctor's new bride?' Irene chose to make the introductions as it was clear she was going to be ignored otherwise. Mary looked at Miss Adler, seemingly noticing her for the first time. Sherlock and Watson had quietened, almost intrigued as the conversation went down.

"And you are?" Mary asked with a spiky tone.

"Irene Adler. I believe Sherlock mentioned my name upon your arrival." Irene smiled, but only Sherlock could tell it was forced. Ever the actress.

"My apologies. Irene, I'm sure it's a pleasure I'm just struggling to understand why Mr Holmes here has decided to visit so suddenly. A rather large coincidence is it not that a murder in London happens to bring you to Florence." Mary finished by turning back to Sherlock who watched her with an observant gaze.

"My dear it wasn't planned I can assure you. A young woman, Miss Adler's acquaintance in London was killed yes, but it was only a secondary victim with similar links that happened right here in the plaza not too far that brought us to Florence. Very suspicious, but indeed, merely coincidence." Mary didn't look convinced and glanced at her husband for his thoughts. His face remained expressionless, something unusual for Watson and he removed his gaze from anyone in the immediate circle. Instead he looked to the ceiling, hiding his thoughts.

"So your reasons for being in Florence is entirely to do with the case and Miss Adler, nothing to do with following us?" He looked down at Sherlock and asked the final question, getting a suitable answer.

"Old boy I had been doing well and had no intentions to follow you here. It's much too warm and social for myself to enjoy. But to answer your question yes, I am here for the sole purpose of finding a killer and getting out of your hair as soon as possible." He looked sincere and Watson believed him.

"So why are you here having dinner then? Case talk?" Mary wasn't convinced.

"Actually we are having a night off from the case. As Miss Adler insisted prior to your arrival, today has been a negative one on all accounts and to clear our own thoughts ready for phase two we needed a night off. Thus, you find us having dinner. You're both more than welcome to join us, as I have on good word, Miss Adler is paying." Irene looked stunned at his comment and smiled sarcastically.

"Since when did Sherlock Holmes have 'nights off'? And no, thank you for the offering but myself and Mary have dinner plans of our own where I am paying-"

"-It's what a gentleman would do." Mary pitched in. Sherlock scowled at her and Irene stifled a laugh. Upon Mary's final word no more was spoken and the married couple headed to the front, no doubt requesting to be sat at a table out of sight of Sherlock and Irene.

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	8. Midnight Answers

**I'm so sorry for the really long wait! No excuses just my laziness :L But here is an extra long chapter for those of you still reading :D :D Enjoy!**

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The room was almost pitch black when Sherlock awoke. He was curled on the sofa, lord only knew why, when the bed was just as comfortable. True the bed had been a double, with it all that was left at such short notice but neither had been fussed. While under usual circumstances Sherlock would avoid close contact such as sharing a bed it didn't bother him as much as usual when it was Irene. Since practically revealing everything to him on the bridge they seemed to have a mutual understanding of one another.

Lying perfectly still on the sofa Sherlock was able to hear Irene's breathing. It was steady, she was still deeply asleep and therefore he concluded he hadn't been woken by any loud noises, rather his own sub-conscious working overtime. Nothing new there then. Untangling his limbs Holmes made his way to the balcony, slipping through the smallest gap he could make with the door to ensure the cool breeze didn't awaken Irene.

The night wasn't as cold as expected back in London but it did have a cool breeze to it. The wind ruffled Sherlock's sleep-ridden hair and freshened his face. The view from the balcony was beautiful, the tips of Italian buildings visible in the darkness and the occasional glow from a gas lamp. There was a spot a little way off where the buildings dipped and vanished, the plaza. It was strange to think just a few days ago a crime was committed so close to them, a crime seemingly incapable of an average human.

Almost impossible.

"The killer isn't your average man out with a murder count on his mind. He's damaged. The girl, Elena, she gave him advice, clearly the wrong sort of advice and he killed her. Poison is a subtle murder method, especially when planted on food it wasn't to look like a crime had been committed, he still cared for her. No, he didn't know her. He had no idea who she was other than the market girl who helped him out. So why kill her? Because she tried to help him and the help made things worse. But what did she tell him? Think Sherlock think. The crimes are based around fairy tales, and fairy tales are meant for children, bedtime stories – it relaxes them and allows them to imagine a magical place, something different to take their mind of reality. Maybe Elena suggested the man read fairy tales but the tales weren't helping.'

As Sherlock spoke to himself, the door unlatched and Irene stepped out. She had been asleep but while Sherlock had been in his reverie the door had been struck by the breeze, swinging back open again and causing the night air to wake her up. Now she was wrapped in a satin nightgown, probably not the best outfit in the weather and the fact they were outside but she was more fascinated by Sherlock's thoughts to care.

'He had something major happen in his past, something that cannot be forgotten, maybe losing someone? Or killing someone? War. The man is a soldier, he went to war and suffered mentally and now cannot unsee what he's seen. He poured out his sorrows to Elena, the girl who listened and she helped him but the stories she suggested involved killing and didn't help. So he used the stories to exact revenge, first snow White and the poisoned apple – the first story he read. But he's in shell-shock, his subconscious is greedy for more. Killing Elena took his mind momentarily off the war and on his new conquest. Then the buzz died down and he needed a new fix. Killing is his drug. To avoid getting caught he moved on, country number two. But why William Donte?"

He paused a moment, his mind ticking at the potential list of reasons, trying to narrow it down to just one, maybe two answers that he would be happy with. Only then would he even consider moving on, or even going back indoors and getting some more sleep.

"William Donte was a soldier right? Maybe they were in the same squad? Maybe William did something that the killer didn't agree with, or maybe he was better than the killer and now he's jealous?" Irene's voice was loud in the silence of midnight Florence but her sudden appearance at his side didn't make Sherlock jump. Instead, he glanced at her, taking in her appearance, the thin, black, nightgown, her chestnut curls loose, travelling down her back and her shoulders and her wide brown eyes, framed with long, thick black lashes allowing her pale face to stand out like moonlight.

"William Donte was a coward. He didn't want to go to war, his loneliness made him believe it was a good idea. He got sent back home for not being able to return to the front line and the killer found out. Maybe they were friends on the front line and when he returned he headed out to find this 'friend' this, coward and kill him in the way he would have been destroyed if he had continued to fight."

"But what does it have to do with Hansel and Gretel? You said that Elena and snow White was due to appearance and the fact that poison doesn't necessarily look like murder, especially cyanide."

"Hansel and Gretel walked into the path of the witch and were almost burnt because of it. They got lost and ended up at the gingerbread house. It can be used as a metaphor. William was lost, alone in the world and war was his gingerbread house. But he suffered and was almost burnt to death because of it. They sent him back and he soon became a victim of the very death he'd suffered if he had stayed fighting."

Sherlock turned his entire body to Irene as he finished speaking. His dark haired was still ruffled, eyes alive with mystery and intrigue. His clothing was jumbled, a few more buttons than decent were loose on his shirt and the hem was untucked from his trousers. In public, the pair would have been deemed indecent for certain, but atop their balcony in the dead of night neither of them took much notice. Sherlock's chin was covered in the beginnings of a dark stubble, and his lips dry from the wind.

In a manner of silence Irene reached forward and up a little toying with the lowest of the undone buttons. She fiddled with the hole, making to put it back in its place but when it became apparent the button wasn't up for playing she gave up and instead allowed her cold fingers to rest against his chest a moment longer than probably necessary. Sherlock noticed this but did not comment, rather, allowed her to persevere.

"Who knew it would take coming to Italy, a second murder and the annoyance of your best friend and his wife for you to start thinking up some answers." Irene's voice came out as barely a whisper, but the quiet air around allowed her to be heard. Sherlock chuckled lightly under his breath.

"My mind couldn't have thought up everything without the evidence my dear. I am not a magician nor psychic I cannot think about what I've not yet seen. Without a physical appearance or a name we have not much to go on in the ways of identifying the man but his personality and background are falling into place as planned. It won't be much longer."

"And Elena's death will be justified." There was a steely look of defiance in her eyes, the gaze burning into Sherlock's. Her fingers were still playfully adjusting the buttons on his top but her look never once deterred, instead continuing to match Sherlock's stare.

"What is your relationship with Elena Harris Irene?" He asked. The woman looked stunned. The question itself was a repeat of their first meeting but she was sure she'd already given an answer.

"I told you. I can't see how Sherlock Holmes would have forgotten?" she asked, biting her lip. It was an action she would never normally do unless she was genuinely unsure how a situation would continue – such as in this case.

"You told me she was a market girl you'd grown fond of due to her friendly nature I don't believe that. Haven't done, not from the moment you told me but until now it was a tolerable excuse. You care too deeply Irene that is your flaw. The Irene Adler I know would never care as much about a market girls' death, particularly one you didn't even know the name of. While you may be affected slightly by the news it wouldn't encourage you to insist on investigating the death, no matter how peculiar. If this were the case I would be in a list of never ending demand. No. You have another reason for wanting to know the name of the killer behind Elena's murder. Now this investigation will go no further until I know the truth." It was his turn to change the soft gaze to a steely glare. But Irene didn't respond. Instead, she turned away and walked inside. However Sherlock was not about to let her go this easily.

"If you insist on keeping the answer to yourself Irene I will return to London once dawn breaks. But you know as well as I do that I will find out the hard way so you keeping it private will only help for a matter of hours at least."

"It bothers you that much? That you'd continue to find out my reasons even after ending the case?" She asked him with nerve in her voice.

"It bothers you that much? That I shouldn't be allowed to know?"

"Am I not entitled to a private life?"

"Of course you are but to hire an investigator and only give him limited information is not appropriate Miss Adler."

"Scotland yard hired you not I." Irene raised her head defiantly.

"And they gave me all the facts they had. When you requested you work with me I asked how I could trust you and your response was merely for me to learn to trust myself. I cannot trust myself to work efficiently without all of the facts."

Irene and Sherlock were now only a short distance from one another. Both tall in stature they stared into one another's eyes, waiting for the first to crack. But the pair were equally stubborn as they were clever and not about to assist the other. So Sherlock tried a different approach.

He walked across to the other side of the room and stood by the wardrobe. Leaning against the dresser he observed Irene in silence, her back to him. She refused to turn and face the detective, a method she could use to ensure her emotions and expressions don't get the better of her.

"Irene,' Sherlock's voice was soft again now, not the strong tone he'd used when trying to persuade before. 'Irene it is clear to me that Elena means a lot more than just someone you know. It is clear there is a history, whether it be a good or bad one. Reason leads me to believe a close relationship, something you don't form on principle. But I don't think your meant to see her are you? You're hiding and Elena was someone you didn't want to hide from. An engagement perhaps?" He paused, noticing the split-second movement in Irene's head. It lifted a little, only a fraction, another soul would not have noticed.

"Lord Harris. A French aristocrat, an incredibly wealthy man. We were engaged, originally to be married but I couldn't deal with his whining. Constantly about his failed marriage, over and over it was boring. I found myself spending more and more time with his daughter, Elena, on the weeks before the wedding. But about a week before I knew that no matter what the cost, losing out on the inheritance, I could not go through with this wedding. So on the night before the ceremony I ran. Boarded passage to England and never looked back. But I couldn't help hearing her voice inside my head 'I'm so glad you're going to be my step-mother'. It's sentimental I know, but I felt like I'd let the girl down. She'd had so many step-mothers in her life and I was just another. But I was one she liked." Irene stopped, breathing slowly and surely to ensure no tears would fall.

"Elena was going to be your step-daughter." Sherlock repeated. Not a lot would shock Mr Holmes but this he wished he'd sat down for.

"It didn't take long for Harris to get over my disappearance and move onto the next bride. But she despised children and for her own safety, he moved Elena to England and with a family on the market. He kept in touch and that's how she found out of his death. The girl was heartbroken, she still cared and loved for her father and now she had nobody left. I went to her, the day after and upon seeing me she was horrified, livid. I never went back."

"You still cared for Elena."

"Not the Irene you know? Hell, it's not the Irene I know. I'm normally so sure of myself but this was a whole new feeling and I'm not sure I can handle it."

"Lord Harris…he was married to the adulteress Lady Genevieve am I correct?"

"I wondered if you'd see that." Irene turned to Sherlock and couldn't help but muster a laugh at this. After a moments silence Irene returned to the bed and pulled the duvet up over her. Observing her for about five or ten minutes, Sherlock then decided to also return to bed and perhaps try and get some sleep before dawn broke.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

It was the second time Sherlock had told Irene this now and in the darkness, he could hear her breathing next to him. From the pitch, he could tell she was still awake and heard what he had said.

"Thank you." Came her whispered reply.

* * *

Sherlock knelt down and took out his lock picking equipment. The morning after their talk last night Irene and Sherlock had not continued with the conversation, rather instead, both getting dressed with their usual comments and deciding that while Holmes was going to the address given as Donte's home, Irene had her own business to attend too. So after breakfasting together that morning they bid farewell, with the intentions of meeting up that afternoon.

So now, after a good few minutes or so Sherlock had been on his knees, struggling with the unique design of the door lock. It came as rather a big surprise however, when he leaned back to try a different method and the door was kicked in forcefully. Looking up with first shock and then recognition, Sherlock was pleased to see Doctor John Watson at his side once more.

"Not with Mary?" Sherlock asked as the pair crossed the threshold into the home. He pocketed his equipment before beginning his initial observations.

"Mary has been taken out for the morning by Miss Adler no less. I believe she is actually trying to do you a favour and get you in Mary's good books, for whatever reason I have no idea. She gave me this address and thought it might be nice if the two of us catch up. On the case of course, it has been only under a week since I saw you last." Watson ran his finger through the dust gathering on the shelf, grimacing as an oily substance struck his finger and quickly wiping it on his trousers.

"Doesn't sound at all like Miss Adler. Perhaps an act of kindness following the revelations last night provided." Watson looked at his friend in slight confusion.

"No matter, it is of a private business between myself and Miss Adler. And not the sort you are thinking of Watson!" Sherlock looked in mock horror as his friend raised his eyebrows in response.

"So what are you expecting to find here Holmes?" Watson had taken to standing by the side as Sherlock continued his own investigations. Throughout the course of the morning Holmes had filled in his partner with the exploits of the past couple of days, the reasons behind Miss Adler's appearance (save for the previous evenings conversation) and what he had learnt about both the victim and the killer.

"William was a soldier just like our killer. I am looking for any reference to a specific person, captain or some other higher authority. I want to see if there was anyone in William's life who would kill him upon the grounds of cowardice." Sherlock had been rifling through papers and books and a pile of letters that had been aging in the corner. He had managed to find various bits and pieces but nothing that helped him with the case, nothing substantial anyway.

It was only as the clock on the mantelpiece struck noon that something came to light.

"Watson, take a look at this." Sherlock held a piece of paper, another letter, up by the window. Over time the writing had become hard to read as the ink faded but some of the information was still legible.

' _Mr William Donte,_

_ It has come to my attention that you are no longer part of Her Majesties military service on the grounds of 'shell-shock' and too mentally unstable to continue. I believe this is due to the war itself, work on the front line has made you suffer._

_I remember you on the front line, we were there together if you remember. They wiped me off and sent me home for mental instability too, however I think I was because I had been shot, and I suffered. You did not._

_While we were friends and looked out for one another on the warfront I did not see you becoming such a coward Donte, and –_

_ -should not fall with a whisper, but with a shout. A suffering that suits a hero, but changed for that of a coward._

_We'll be seeing one another again soon I believe._

_Until then_

_Holloway'_

"Holloway?" Watson repeated the surname of the writer.

"Let us hope there isn't too many 'Holloways' that served on the front line with rank." Sherlock turned to go but the doorway was blocked. Two men stood there, one grinning maliciously and the other brandishing a rather large piece of wood, a weapon.

"Let me guess. You are here after the news of a break in at a dead man's home and knew at once that it would be connected to the murder. Therefore your boss sent you here to ensure nobody leaves alive and that the information we have discovered remains a secret." Sherlock looked between the two men. It was clear they were alone, and cocky, definitely.

"We were told that two gentlemen such as yourselves would turn up at some point. While murder has taken place in a foreign country, the ties were just too tight. I do believe our boss suggested the name…Sherlock Holmes?"

"-And John Watson." Holmes inclined his head in the direction of his disgruntled friend.

"Me and Mary were going to have a day out at the Galleria today. Nice quiet day in the sunshine, maybe go out for lunch. Instead I'm going to get my head kicked in aren't I?" He turned to Holmes.

"Only if you don't pay attention Watson old boy. Now take your pick. If you're quick, lunch is just around the corner."

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**Hope you enjoyed! It hopefully won't be as long as last time before the next update!**


	9. The Gingerbread House

**So this is my chapter of fight scenes! I tried to do them in Guy Ritchie style so I hope you approve! Please, this is the first time I've ever written fight sequences so i'd appreciate any feedback, good or constructive!**

**Also: I do not own the children's story Hansel and Gretel and the quotes used in this chapter are as close to the original/the same as possible. Just be aware that I do not own them and am using them purely for story purposes.**

**Enjoy.**

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**Watson**

Opponent is tall, not much taller than myself. Broad, a clear fighter. Carries the weapon in a firm grip, looks confident but the weapon is a mirage. A tool used to make me think that he is the better fighter when really, he just uses the weapon as a threat, to try and get me to back down.

No chance.

He'll strike first, right handed he'll strike to the left, duck right and jump back. Not too far and slide right again. Now I'm no longer cornered. First rule; don't let yourself be backed into the corner unless you have a plan that plots your next three or four moves.

Use cane to stab deliberately into opponents waist line. Using force will create pain not in injury, but distraction. Use distraction to punch face, breaking nose almost instantly. He drops weapon, use to advantage. Knee to groin, use weapon as battering ram to stomach, cracking ribs. Side kick to abdomen, man down. Use wooden weapon forceably against head, out cold for a few hours at least.

Job done.

**Sherlock**

Opponent is around the same height as myself, fighter, no weapon but clearly confident, been in fights before. Won. Uses muscle as added bonus. Addiction, alcoholic, can smell it on his breath. Smoker, wringing his hands, drug user, itching for his next fix. Distracted. Makes for an easier target.

Quick, two punches to left cheek, one, two. Wildly attacks with right arm, in attempt to push attacker away. Block with elbow, after block outstretch arm to deliver third punch, jaw fractured, nose broken.

Opponent makes to punch stomach, turn to side, waist punch painful but not injuring. Side kick to abdomen, pushing him away. Watch his advances.

Hit wall. Change of tactics. Opponent thinks he has you cornered will go for facial attack, favouring right side at the moment. Victim (myself) cannot move, dodge by moving head left and right accordingly. While attacker focuses on face deliver punch to stomach, twice, then strike to already fractured jaw. Hook left leg around his right, pull him onto knee's. Sudden impact, fractures knee. Knee to groin, then final kick to face.

Job done.

Total fighting time: seven minutes.

Total injuries: First man – broken nose, possibly broken, definitely cracked ribs, possible head injury upon returning to consciousness.

Second man – jaw broken, nose broken, cracked ribs, fractured knee, unconscious.

Pocketing the letter Sherlock stole a final glance at the wounded gentlemen laying on the floor. Then, alongside Watson the pair strode out the door and back onto the streets like nothing more had happened.

Irene and Mary had been walking through the plaza of Florence when Sherlock and Watson returned. It was clear from their freshly gained injuries and dishevelled clothing that the pair had been fighting and Mary sighed before immediately tending to John's wounds.

"Why is it whenever he's around you Mr Holmes John comes home injured?" She asked with a scolding glare. Sherlock just looked to Irene with an 'I thought you were talking to her' look upon his face. She just smiled.

"I trust you got what you went in for? And a bit more besides as I can see?" Irene commented on Sherlock's new look, the cut against his cheek and the slight rip on his shirt. However he tapped his pocket with a pleasing grin.

"Exactly what I was after and something very useful at that." He told her.

"So have you two had a nice morning?" Watson attempted to change the subject. Not wanting his best friend to get into even more trouble with Mary was something he did on what felt like a daily basis.

"Oh we haven't been together that long have we Irene? Maybe the last half an hour? But yes, we've had a very pleasant morning." Mary smiled, a genuine smile. Sherlock however was just watching Irene who was successfully managing to avoid his eye contact.

As the four of them decided to go for lunch Sherlock trailed behind and hooking his arm deliberately with Irene's he managed to ensure she stayed behind with him also.

"I thought you and Mary were spending the whole morning together? Watson arrived moments after I did, telling me the two of you were together. That was longer than half an hour ago – where have you been?"

"It doesn't matter, maybe Mary got her times muddled, or maybe Watson was wrong. What matters is that you got the information and now the past is in the past. Can we go to lunch without arguing _darling_?"

"When you give me a suitable answer then of course _my dear_." She issued him a swift, sarcastic smile in reply.

_As she approached the hotel reception Irene was almost knocked over by a hurrying John Watson. He glanced first at Irene before walking on, then stopped to turn and register her fully._

"_Miss Adler, what a surprise?!" He commented, failing to hide his shock at her appearance. Mary had also arrived by this point and smiled pleasantly upon seeing Irene._

"_Doctor I do hope I'm not intruding but I've actually come to see Mary. You see after last night I felt like myself and Sherlock owed you an apology for not informing you both of our arrival in Florence and I was hoping today could be used to make it up to you."_

_ Once Mary had agreed and Irene had given Watson the address Sherlock had been hoping to investigate the plans were decided. Irene was to return in an hour or so to see Mary and allow them both the have some time together. _

_This decided, Irene headed back out. Wanting to have some answers ready should she need them Irene returned to the crime scene in the darkened area of the plaza. Nobody paid her much attention, which was good really seeing as this allowed her to work in silence. Irene wasn't sure what she would be looking for, knowing that Sherlock had already scoped out the area and deemed it fully investigated meant there was clearly nothing left of importance to go on but even Irene knew that Sherlock wasn't always perfect._

_ What she did notice however was about fifteen minutes in. A gentleman, one she didn't recognise had caught her attention as he stood a little way off, just watching. Upon her noticing him, he approached and Irene gave up the search in favour of this new stranger._

"_Can I help you my dear? Have you lost something?" His voice was something that sent shivers down Irene's spine, not that she'd show concern of course. Instead she acted as calmly as possible and just looked on with a smile.  
_

_"No it's nothing that can't be dealt with alone." She responded quickly and efficiently._

"_A terrible ordeal happened here not too long ago, I wouldn't spend much more time in the shadows, anything could happen." He told her. To an average person this would sound like some helpful advice but Irene had been on the wrong side of the law most of her life and this was a tone she recognised all too well.  
_

_"Is that a threat?" She asked with a glare. The man continued to look on at her, lifting the corners of his mouth into a smile, and not a pleasant one.  
_

_"A warning my dear, nothing more." Gripping Irene's arm by the crook as tightly as humanly possible the strange gentleman directed Irene into one of the attaching alleyways. Normally she would fight him off without an issue but Irene was curious as to where this was heading. She knew that in the event of trouble she would be able to protect herself, visible or not so at this point she was not worried._

"_Now that wasn't very gentlemanly." She scolded with a knowing smile._

"_My dear haven't you heard the saying that children, or in this case pretty young woman who play with fire get their fingers burnt." His tone was no longer that of the friendly older man but to what Irene believed was his natural voice, a malevolent tone of genius and insanity rolled into one._

"_I don't know what you mean." Irene's response was that of innocence._

"_And when they approached the little house they saw that it was built of bread and covered with cakes, but that the windows were of clear sugar." The man recited and Irene recognised it from Hansel and Gretel._

"_The gingerbread house."  
_

_"Upon approach to the gingerbread house the children didn't know the trouble they could get themselves into. They thought it would bring happiness, an escape from the hunger. But it brought danger. It was insanity masquerading as safety."_

"_Is that why you killed William Donte? Because he realised the danger before the mirage had ended. He woke up from the dream before it became the nightmare." Irene had figured not long after their conversation had taken a turn for the worst, who she was speaking too. Without a name he was just an evil killer but a killer nonetheless._

"_Donte was my Hansel. Now I need a Gretel." He struck a match from nowhere and held the flame before Irene. _

"_Gretel was an innocent girl who walked into the path of danger with seemingly no way out." Irene knocked the flame from his hand, allowing it to land on the ground and be stamped out by her foot. She then struck the killer upon the face with her elbow as he advanced from behind and turned, beating him with a single blow to the head knocking him to the ground. He was not unconscious, nor was he badly injured save for the deep cut across his cheek and the bruise forming around his eye. But Irene wasn't planning to severely injure, merely just to warn. _

"_You've been messing with the wrong girl." She spat before turning and heading away from the alley, back into the plaza._

"_Indeed, you need a fairy tale all your own."_

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**dun dun dunnnnnnn! I hope you liked, bit of a cliffhanger but hey it keeps me adding more chapters! Please read and review...much appreciated! Xx**


	10. Onwards to Paris

**Thank you for the reviews :) Here's some more for you lovely people Xx**

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The gas lamps were lit outside, allowing a burnt orange glow to rise up from the street level. It was to be their final night in Florence, catching the train tomorrow, heading to Paris. Holmes had received a telegram during dinner that a third crime had been committed in the capital of France.

It was to be the killers third and final crime, Sherlock had declared before throwing down his napkin in frustration and walking out of the restaurant, pipe already lit. Irene had followed after settling the bill and Mary and John had returned to their own hotel for the evening.

After pacing back and forth on the balcony for the best part of an hour Sherlock re-entered the bedroom shortly after Irene had returned from her bath.

"How has a third been committed?" Sherlock mused, more to himself but he spoke aloud in the hope that maybe Irene could offer her insight. But she wasn't sure either, especially after the mornings activities. Adler had yet to tell the detective of her run in that morning and it was beginning to look more and more likely that perhaps she should have done.

"Sherlock, I've got something to tell you."

"If this is about your morning activities Irene I can assure you they are the last thing on my mind right now."

"Oh I think they'll be the first if you give me a chance."

She retold the story in full and Sherlock sat with a pipe in one hand listening. When she had finished he handed her the letter, allowing her to read its entirety.

"The man I ran into was Holloway?" She questioned and he nodded. So it would seem.

"General Robert Holloway I believe. A war hero of course who was sent back from the frontline after suffering from his own shell-shock upon nearly being killed. I believe this is partly to blame for his serial killings."

"Holloway thought of war as a gingerbread house. The gunfire and injuries were just the mask slipping away from an otherwise perfect disguise." Irene sat herself on the edge of the bed as Sherlock fell into the armchair practically opposite.

"You attacking him has brought up another wave of craving. His subconscious is telling him that murder will make him better and now he has gone to Paris and struck again." Sherlock mused but his poor choice of words affected Irene.

"I'm responsible for the third death?!" She questioned, pushing herself off the bed and walking to the balcony door, not opening it, just looking outside.

"That's not what I meant."

"But it's true. I beat him, he tried to kill me and I defended myself but in turn I didn't satisfy his fix. So now some poor soul has been killed and it's my fault. I shouldn't have fought him."

"And in turn you would have been found dead in an alleyway, while he would have still continued. People would have died regardless Irene."

"Yes but they died because I didn't." She turned and faced Sherlock and for the first time since the pair had met her voice wavered, struck by an emotion she wasn't too familiar with.

"It's not your fault."

"It's got to be someone's."

"His." Sherlock had approached Irene now, a hand on either shoulder, his finger drawing concentric circles in the hope of making her feel better. It was comforting and Irene allowed his soothing motion to continue, drawing her head back again to lean on his shoulder fully. She knew that Sherlock was correct but a part of her couldn't help but feel guilty for the third death. No amount of words or comfort was going to shake that from her.

As Sherlock slept that evening Irene couldn't. She sat on the chair he had vacated earlier and watched the rise and fall of his chest as he remained peaceful. Her mind was buzzing with the revelations and the desperate desire to forget everything that had happened and move on. Tomorrow they would be leaving for Paris and to find a third body, one she had unintentionally put forward.

_Sherlock_

Irene's pen hovered over the paper as she thought about the right words to say. While she was heading to Paris she knew she had to go alone and try and earn back some of her conscience. With Sherlock there also, it couldn't be done. She had to go alone.

_I know what you said is true. I know you meant well by saying it wasn't my fault and there is a part of me that wants to believe you. But another, bigger part is telling me that someone was killed because I wasn't and I will not allow emotions to play with my conscience._

_ I'm sure it won't be long before we run into one another again, hopefully with this case behind us._

_Until then,_

_Irene._

She put down the pen and re-read the letter. It wasn't brilliant but it would have to do. Folding it in half, Irene tucked the paper into the hand of Sherlock Holmes and sighing placed a kiss on his lips. Even in the dead of sleep she felt him kiss back. Although this was most likely a figment of her imagination she allowed herself to believe it real and gripping the handle of her suitcase Irene Adler left the hotel room.

* * *

Ink dry, no smudges whatsoever. Room empty with barely a trace of perfume. Bed slept in but now cold, untouched for hours. Irene Adler had left in the dead of night with just a note to show for it.

Sherlock should have suspected it really, it was not the first, nor would it be the last time Irene Adler had showed up, stuck around and then disappeared with no warning. But this was one of the only times there had been a clear reason behind it. Not a mystery client she could no longer work for, not her own master plan that had been completed and therefore she had no reason to stay and not an engagement that had come to its end. No this was guilt and a conscience, two things Sherlock was unsure up until now that Irene was aware of.

And so it came to pass that he would be travelling to France alone, Watson declaring at dinner that he and Mary would be staying to continue their honeymoon. He had expressly commented that should trouble arise Sherlock should have no qualms about contacting him however.

The train journey was quiet with nobody to annoy him. Usually Sherlock wouldn't have complained but the last few days he had gotten used to human contact. While he was quite capable of locking himself in his rooms for months on end should Watson allow it, after spending a considerable amount of time with Miss Adler a part of him (and he hated himself for it) had grown to miss her. It didn't take a genius to understand why she had gone and Sherlock knew fully well that she had gone to Paris, just alone. Which made him curious as to what she expected to achieve before his arrival.

Paris was a beautiful city. It was one of Sherlock's better travelling spots, but he hardly ever saw it due to various cases. There was one thing he always wanted to see though, not that many knew. He wanted to see the whole of Paris from the top of the Eiffel tower. It had been finished and opened just last year and he had to experience standing at the top of the tower. But from the looks of this case, he would be waiting a while before he got to stand up there.

It was visible from when he departed from the train station. The elegant metal framework reminded him of the tower bridge back in London.

"It really is an industrious empire we live in." He murmured to himself with a smile as he strode through the crowds of people to catch a carriage.

Fumbling in his pocket after leaving the hotel room Sherlock found the address he had been looking for, the one from the telegram. He had chosen a hotel that wasn't too far from the street he was looking for it probably wasn't the best, Sherlock tended to travel with companions who can choose for him; i.e.: Watson or Irene.

* * *

The alleyways were darker and colder than in Florence, definitely more like England. The cobbled grounds were wet from the recent downpour and the gas lamps flickered from either end, leaving the middle coated in a thick almost darkness. Sherlock wasn't fazed, in fact, he was used to travelling about in the dark. It made him feel more alive, the danger and mystery of the surrounding area not being seen and not knowing what was round the next corner. The alleyway in question was no different to the others, but instead of a body as expected, Sherlock found a piece of paper.

"Sleeping Beauty." Sherlock read from the top of the page. A brief scan of the paper identified it as the page in which the young princess gets her finger pricked from the needle. On the back of the paper was a scribbled note in an unfamiliar handwriting:

"_Come and find me Sherlock Holmes. Look to the skies. I'll be at the very top of France."_

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**Ooh :) Please read&&review my lovelies Xx**


	11. Meetings in Paris

**I'm really sorry guys but this is a short chapter! Only because the drama starts to unfold after this and I don't want all of it piled into one chapter. It was either really short, or really long and really long would mean less updates :( So I do hope you enjoy and review for me please and I'll review ASAP!**

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Stepping off the train Irene couldn't help but admire the city she had long loved. It had been a city of fond memories for her, whether it be the enormous amount of dresses she had purchased, the jewels she would say she purchased or even just the walks through the parks. There was nothing about Paris she would deem not beautiful.

After freshening up in her usual hotel room Irene quickly set off. This trip was not about admiring the city it was about destroying this guilt upon her conscience and allowing her to continue through life with no burdens to bear. A burden was not something Irene took kindly too.

The sky was cloudy and grey but not yet raining as Irene found the alleyway she had been looking for. After jotting down the address from the telegram back in Florence she was relying on her own penmanship, something she had practised for many years when she was younger and now it flourished in almost an art form. However it seemed to have been wasted as upon her arrival the alleyway in question was empty.

"I don't understand?" She doubted herself, checking the paper again and turning back, examining the street from all angles. All reason told her that she was in the right location and that made her wonder whether she had been duped.

"Good afternoon Miss Adler." Her suspicions had been confirmed when the familiar voice approached from the shadows.

"You've been expecting me I see." Irene remarked.

"I invited you. Would have been rude for you to turn me down. Though it's come to my attentions that Mr Holmes is not with you?"

"Sherlock isn't in France no. But believe me he knows all about you Holloway." Irene's eyes had grown dark as she glared at the man in front of her.

He was clearly a former army man, from the athletic build to the neatness of his chosen outfit. His hair was dark and cut short like an officer and he stood strong and straight like someone of importance. But Irene noticed the shake in his hand, the signs of someone who had experienced trauma. While she was no Sherlock Holmes, Irene was quick to notice traits that would lead to someone's personality, such as habits and involuntary movements.

"Shame. But I am sure we can attract his attention some other way." Robert's voice drifted, like he was thinking of some suitable ideas. Irene wasn't interested in playing games however.

"There is no third dead body is there?" She already knew the answer but felt it was a good starting point. His smile made her squirm inside.

"No of course not my dear that would be all too easy. First of all I have to ask myself an important question; who has given me reason to take their life? Now you're first response would probably be nobody but there is always something and that leads me to point two; What sort of death do they deserve?"

"All your killings have been based on fairy tales. Elena was snow white, William Donte was Hansel and Gretel. What's next?"

"I thought long and hard about a suitable story for this case. You see, the woman, yes it is a woman Miss Adler, the woman I intend to kill was someone that until a short while ago, I had never heard of. A stranger, just like Elena. But she didn't frustrate me with useless advice no, she tried to harm me. In fact, she tried to kill me." Robert shot Irene a vengeful look and Irene understood instantly.

"So you're going to kill me." She stated matter-of-factly.

With no verbal warning, Holloway pointed a gun in Irene's direction. She couldn't help but smirk, she knew he wouldn't kill her. He was a predictable man and no fairy tales involved the innocent victim being shot by a pistol. Nonetheless Irene too brought out her own pistol and held it firmly in his direction.

"Could you shoot me first Irene?"

"When were we on first name terms?" Irene steadied her gaze, gripping the butt of the gun firmly and comfortable, an action she was very sure of.

"I believe in getting to know my victims in an informal way before they die. Makes me feel more alive."

"How do you deal with the guilt?"

"Irene I fought in a war, I killed people on a daily basis. I don't feel guilt at the prospect of murder."

"Your hand is shaking."

For a second, Robert Holloway didn't react. This second allowed Irene to prepare for the following and react accordingly. He swung the butt of the gun outwards, gripping the pipe and directing the weapon to hit Irene squarely in the face. She ducked with ease and used her own pistol to beat him round the back of the head. A good clean knock would have him unconscious in seconds but in the darkened alley she misjudged her strike and almost missed. Instead she caught him neatly above the eyebrow, leaving a deep cut but nothing more. With this one error he grabbed her arm, almost swinging her into the brick wall. Irene's free hand flew forward, catching herself but in another swift movement his own free hand struck her face, letting her go and land to the ground, out cold.

Holloway was a strong man from his training within the army and Irene was a light woman. He scribbled onto a piece of paper and left it jutting out of the gaps in the brickwork. Then, lifting her into his arms he abandoned his post in the alleyway.


	12. The Beginning of the End

**Hello :) Thank you for my reviews! Here's the next chapter for you lovely people!**

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The Eiffel tower loomed over Holmes at a staggering 1,050 feet tall, an intricate design of metal stretching to the skyline. But Sherlock was no longer interesting in the workings of the tower, or indeed how it was made. He was interested in the goings on at the very top of the tower. Instead, he headed straight for the staircase, attacking it with a run despite the sheer amount of willpower and strength he would need to get to the top.

It took all of his own strength to get to the top but Sherlock couldn't allow himself to tire. There were lives at stake and he'd be damned if someone was killed because he was 'having a break'. So upon arriving at the very top of the Eiffel tower Sherlock pulled himself together and strode across the flooring. That was when he stopped.

Part of his mind had been expecting the worse upon arrival but this was something he didn't expect. To the left of the staircase, near the very edge of the tower a woman lay motionless. Not any woman. The woman. In six fluid steps Sherlock knelt by her side and grabbed for her wrist. Her pulse was there, but it was slow. Then he caught the blood drops. A few on the floor and more on her dress. From her finger. Her finger had been pricked. Sure enough the needle was replaced with a syringe and a quick smell told Sherlock that Irene had been drugged. Whether the amount that had entered her system would prove fatal was something that remained to be seen.

"So you must be the great Sherlock Holmes." A voice, calm in nature arose from somewhere behind Sherlock. A middle aged man, clearly a decorated soldier from his appearance stepped from the shadows near the staircase and inclined his head in greeting. Sherlock stood, ready to meet his match.

"General Robert Holloway. I have been following your work but forgive me, you don't strike me as the sort who divulges in fairy tales. Stories of imagination and creativity – more meant for children I believe?" Sherlock paced the floor of the tower, maintaining a healthy distance between himself and this new figure.

"Fairy stories from afar are freedom yes, a dreamy far off land mixed with magic and colour. But have you read them Holmes? Have you really read them? Fairy tales are full of terror, attempted murder, through burning them, poisoning them, kidnap, theft, the list goes on."

"The poor children." Sherlock's tone was sarcastic as he continued to tread carefully, exploring his new surroundings, the great new height.

"I suppose by now you understand why I have done what I've done?" Robert asked, pacing also so the two men were walking in full circle.

"I was initially unsure yes but as the second crime was committed information started coming to light. For example; with the case of Elena it wasn't until I started asking around that I got a suspicion. It was clear to see that you were easily manipulated and that meant you had a trigger inside your mind encouraging you. Elena gave you advice didn't she? You told her about your time at war and that you got sent back after almost being killed and the danger to your own mental state. She suggested fairy tales as a chance of 'freedom' as you call it. But it just brought up this idea of a voice in your mind, subconsciously giving you the idea that killing her would make you feel a little better."

Sherlock stopped, observing his counterpart. Holloway's hand was hovering just over the pocket hidden by his suit jacket. From the way the generals hand sat comfortably in a grip hold position Sherlock was quick to realise the pocket held a hand pistol. His other hand was sat at his side, not ready to hold anything, single weapon.

"Then we move onto the case of William Donte. A military man also, you shared position on the front line, that much is clear from the letter and the discussion you had with Miss Adler,' he inclined his head to her unmoving body, 'he was sent back also due to his mental state but you got angry because he was under the same conditions as yourself, without enduring the same situation. That little voice spoke up again and told you that maybe you should put a stop to it yourself. The bombs burn. It's in their nature, and of course in the tale of Hansel and Gretel the children were bound to burn – your next point of attack." Sherlock was in his stride now, relaying his deductions to the man behind the crimes. It was when he felt most at ease really, certain of the answers he was speaking and expecting the worst to follow.

"You got angry with Irene when she disarmed you in the alleyway, after your argument. Knowing that it would draw us both from Florence and into Paris, the location for your third crime you staged it, informing us both that another crime had been committed, a victim had been murdered because Irene hadn't been killed in the alley. You're a clever man Holloway, understanding that this would affect Irene's – a woman who previously had none, - her conscience. I had my suspicions of course, one couldn't travel from Florence to Paris, find a victim, match a story and kill all in one day, especially when they were working alone. Specifically also that it had to have been a person who has upset you and the only logical answer was Miss Adler. So you lured her into the alleyway in question where you both fought and she fundamentally, lost. That was clear from the scuffle marks in the dirt and the impressions the rain had made on the ground, tracing patterns around the footprints."

"You are a clever man Mr Holmes and right on all accounts. But one thing you failed to account for. These deaths, they suppress the memories Holmes. They help me to sleep at night I don't know how. But I trust in my own subconscious to eventually wipe these memories from my mind. I was a peaceful man before war Mr Holmes. All I'm asking is to return to being that peaceful man."

"There are people that can help but killing is not the answer. So many people struggle to understand that." Holmes ran a hand through his hair rather absent-mindedly. He suppressed a yawn, not through exhaustion but through boredom, having had the same conversation with thousands of people thousands of times. It usually ended in a similar manner also.

With a seconds pause, something he had a habit of making, Robert Holloway revealed his pistol and with a shaky hand pointed it directly at Sherlock. Something clicked inside Mr Holmes but for defence and to continue the conversation, the detective too, brandished his own weapon.

"I've shot people before Mr Holmes. I was a soldier. I don't want to have to shoot anymore but you leave me no alternative."

"Shoot me then." Sherlock's response was one that Robert clearly hadn't been expecting. His sweaty palm tightened the grip of the butt and his shaky aim pointed forwards. The shell-shock had clearly more of a mental take on Holloway than first thought.

"You won't shoot General. That's why the other three, your victims all fell to a cause other than gunpoint. You're a soldier, a highly decorated soldier at that. In normality, people would expect victims of a war hero to have been shot, but your killings are more subtle. Not revenge as I first thought, mercy killings. They won't help you to forget, but you've been in action so long your mind honestly believes that killing these innocents will save you from you're traumatic memories."

Holloway shot the gun. It was an action he hadn't expected and Sherlock hadn't either in all truth. But with his shaky hand and not very well trained aim the bullet lodged itself into the metal frame of the Eiffel tower, causing a gentle creak and moan from the structure. The soldier looked more comfortable now, it had clearly been a long while since he had shot a gun. Hazarding a guess, Sherlock would have presumed not since war. This changed his entire outlook on the next few minutes.

Step one; Robert needed to be disarmed. It wasn't only for Sherlock's safety, this man was gradually going insane and holding a pistol could mean potential fatality for anyone.

Sherlock looked at the general's stance as he prepared for a second shot. Duck the bullet, shoot, not to kill but to distract and then swift kick round the leg into the back behind Robert's knee, causing him to buckle and drop the gun. Kick gun, preferably off the edge of the tower but anything is better than nothing.

Step two; hold opponent at gunpoint. Through the previous actions, opponent will be gradually coming to senses and attempting to get back up. Steady hand on gun, hold at hostage and ensure opponent follows silent instructions.

Step three; expect retaliation and fight back. Punches to abdomen and cheek, swift quick to shin and defence.

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	13. The Final Chapter

**Thank you for all the reviews everyone, sorry this chapter was a bit late. As you may have worked out by the title, this is the final chapter in this story so I want to thank each and everyone of you who favourited, followed and reviewed any of the chapters, each notification was very much appreciated and this goes out to all of you! Particularly, the Wild Wild Whovian, who has reviewed many times and helped me out!**

**Here goes nothing ...**

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Naturally, all of the above was over and done in a matter of minutes. Sherlock had expected the former general to be a worthy fighter and took a fair share of beating, involving a split lip and what would probably be a black eye in the morning. A nasty looking bruise was forming on his arm also and a gash just below where the mouth of the gun had caught him and ripped the skin. No bullets had been shot though, clearly Holloway didn't trust his aim after the first two misses.

The results were, Sherlock standing, (just about) with Holloway on the ground. He was standing by the side of the Eiffel tower watching Sherlock with a slight menace in his eyes.

"You enjoy the fight Holmes. I see the thrill in your eyes. Excitement. You love it." Robert was smiling, but it was more sinister than Sherlock had experienced in the past.

"I don't enjoy the fight. What you see is exhilaration, nothing more. Fighting has always meant winning to myself and while I have lost many a time the anticipation for the next moves, the surprise, it's all about deductions. I anticipate results, I don't enjoy them."

"You're thirsty for the fight Holmes I can see it in your eyes. Why if I stepped forward and attacked right now you'd know what moves I'd pull and how to block and react."

"That's not enjoyment, that's expectation."

"Well I bet you weren't expecting this."

With that Robert Holloway grinned malevolently at Sherlock, flashed a quick look at the unconscious Irene before stepping backwards and tipping his body over the side of the tower. Sherlock rushed to the edge in almost shock as he watched the tumbling body disappear onto the streets thousands of feet below.

While he hadn't expected it to come to a conclusion quite so dramatically, the menace in his eyes and the question in his speech proved something once and for all. The murders had driven the General to the brink of insanity and after much deliberation, had eventually, quite literally, pushed him over the edge.

With nothing more to be done and no help for the man who was most likely a lifeless corpse at the bottom of the tower now Sherlock gave all his attention to Miss Adler. Kneeling by her side he was quick to feel her wrist and while it was faint there was a definite trace of a pulse remaining. He was sure by now that the poison wasn't enough to kill her, or she would be dead for sure by now. So instead, getting comfortable he lifted Irene's head onto his lap, brushing her curls away from her face and grabbing at the syringe to get a clear view of the liquid that would be passing through Irene's body.

"It's just medicinal alcohol." He remarked with a small smirk as he batted Irene on the head and she fluttered her eyelashes, staring back up at him with a small smile of her own.

"Had you worried for a while though didn't I?" She smirked, pulling herself into a sitting position opposite Holmes. He didn't respond, just stared past her into the direction Holloway had jumped.

"It's over now isn't it? He's dead, nobody else will die." Irene knew she was right but her tone still questioned.

"No. Nobody else." Sherlock matched her gaze, issuing a smile out of reassurance. After a moment's pause, Sherlock rose to his feet and held out a hand which Irene promptly ignored. Putting it down he walked to the edge of the tower and looked out at the view of Paris.

"Finally did get a chance to look out on Paris. Been meaning to since they built the tower." Sherlock was talking but hadn't looked round. Using his own senses and the familiarity of Irene's perfume he knew she had remained just behind. True enough, she appeared at his side and looked out at the view also.

"I've never seen it either. Not until today." This surprised Sherlock. For someone who had travelled the world he could have guaranteed Irene Adler would have already experienced this view a thousand times over. But no, she was experiencing it alongside him for the first time also.

A cold wind brushed against them as the rain began to fall once again. Sherlock pulled his own coat tighter around himself, but rolled his eyes when he caught sight of the raised flesh on Irene's arms, the consequence of wearing a satin dress and no suitable coat. She didn't look at him, just continued to look out at the view, ignoring the growing cold and rain.

Sighing, Holmes pulled his own coat away from his body and draped it around Irene. This startled her as she fingered the lapels gratefully and looked up at him.

"Thank you." Her voice was quiet, barely heard over the weather but the sentiment was there. To ensure their equal warmth Sherlock wrapped an arm around her and almost smiled when her head rested against his shoulder, just below his neck. Her curls tickled his cheek and her perfume wafted around them both but for a while, neither moved.

"Maybe we should head down." Irene was first to speak, pulling her head away from Sherlock's neck rather reluctantly and turning to go. Involuntarily Sherlock's own hand flew out to stop her but when she turned back he found he had no reason for his action.

"That's my coat." He invented the thought and Irene smirked, taking it off and handing it back. Then as the gentleman he usually was, Sherlock allowed Irene to go first and they walked quietly back down the stairs.

Reaching the position Holloway had landed was not a pretty sight. While there was no blood, any that had landed had quickly been washed away by the rain but the man was led flat out, on his face. Only one leg was out of place, angled in a position that clearly wasn't natural. However Sherlock quickly knelt and checked the body's pulse.

"The End, I think." He told Irene.

"So much for happily ever after." Was her quick reply.

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Darkness was all he could see for a moment or two but gradually, Sherlock's eyes grew accustomed to the new surroundings. It was early, maybe just after three and he was lying in the bed quite comfortably, but surprisingly – alone. Or maybe unsurprisingly as it was of late. After seeing to it that General Robert Holloway's body was found by authority Sherlock and Irene had called it a night and she had even followed him back to his choosing of hotel and not her own.

It wasn't a large room, but they hadn't needed the space and after collecting Irene's belongings from the hotel she had originally booked to stay at they had swiftly occupied this room. There was a large queen sized bed sitting in the middle with a small table either side. A dresser sat in the corner which neither of them had bothered using, due to the stay being just the one night.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, sitting up in the bed as he spotted Irene Adler, leaning against the desk in the opposite corner, writing something out. She jumped at his voice in the quiet room and immediately turned, pen in the air.

"How long have you been awake?" Was her response.

"Barely a few minutes. Yourself clearly a lot longer? Are you threatening me with the pen or using it to write your goodbye note. You're going aren't you?" Sherlock was disappointed she was leaving but his voice and appearance showed nothing of the sort.

"I'm not one for staying around long you know that." Irene set the pen back on the side and walked round to Sherlock's side of the bed. She placed herself on the edge, looking back at him with wide set eyes due to the darkness.

"We've both done a long of things recently we don't normally do." Sherlock was of course talking about the events of that night when the two of them had returned to the hotel. While it probably wasn't as out of character for herself as it was for him Sherlock had found himself pleasantly surprised by his reaction the events and of course, his own self allowing it to happen.

"And we've both enjoyed them,' Irene matched his gaze and reluctantly, he gave a little nod. 'But there are some things that are best left to normality and I think us is one of them." She used the term us with defiance, as if it held some sort of meaning.

The two didn't speak for the next few minutes, both trapped in their own thoughts, thinking up whole speeches they'd love to spill out but knew they never would. Eventually, Irene stood up, pressing down her skirts and walking round the bed to where her luggage sat. She picked it up by the handle and walked to the door.

"You'll miss me Irene." Sherlock echoed her own words back at her. She stopped and looked at him. Putting the case down for a second she leaned onto the bed and pressed her own lips to his. For one mesmorising moment it was like time had reversed back to what had started last night and Sherlock was more than happy to oblige. But too soon Irene pulled away and running her hand against his chest she smiled a weak smile.

"Sadly, yes." She responded before returning to her feet, grabbing the case and walking out of the door. Sherlock didn't follow, instead he sat in the bed and looked over to where the piece of paper lay on the writing desk.

"_Dearest Sherlock,_

_ I know it will probably annoy you to hear but by the time you read this letter I will most likely be long gone. I don't know where yet, but even if I did I shan't tell you, you'd only follow._

_Thank you for your help with Elena. Who knew sentiment would be my downfall and almost my death. It's lucky that I had you to count on, Elena wasn't so fortunate. However now that I know her death wasn't in vain I can finally put the past to rest and move on to more important and more exciting things._

_These past few weeks I've come to consider you more of a friend heaven help me. I don't know whether you regard me in the same position but if you do then I am grateful._

_I must be off, but I am sure our paths will cross again soon. Keep an eye on the papers darling, I know you'll be looking out for me. I'll give you clues._

_ Until our next adventure Sherlock Holmes _

_ Yours,_

_ Irene Adler"_

…The End.


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